Chapter 132
Chapter 132
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Translator: uly
Chapter: 132
Chapter Title: 2022-2023 Season, Championship (3)
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[Name: Ethan Roberie]
[Age: 17 years old]
.
.
.
[Estimated Weekly Wage: 500 pounds (800,000 KRW)]
[Position and Role: Wing-back, Winger, Forward]
[Strengths: Minimal fluctuations in form.
Excels in burst speed and ball technique.
A penetrative dribbler who stands out with cutback crosses after breakthroughs.]
[Weaknesses: Physical attributes unsuited for the Championship.
Virtually no presence in aerial challenges.
Poor jumping reach.]
Ma Jeong-woo examined Ethan Roberie's scouting report inside the binder he held.
‘Yeah, his physicality is definitely as weak as it says here.’
It was a summary compiled by the scouts and Hee-won.
He glanced up briefly, and sure enough, the burly full-back barreled in shoulder-first. Roberie staggered and was pushed back.
Even so, as long as he stayed on his feet, he clung tight for follow-up pressures—second, third waves—which was impressive.
But his strengths weren't on display in today's practice match.
“Wow, he's getting squeezed way too hard.”
Hee-won, sitting beside him, muttered with his eyes wide like a bird's.
Just as he said, the opposing defenders swarmed around Roberie, who was playing right winger, like a pack closing in.
Yet Roberie tried to push forward recklessly instead of passing to a teammate who'd dropped back, only to lose the ball once more.
“He's a stubborn one.”
Craig Carson added the explanation with a soft smile.
“Back in U14 and U16, he was so dominant they called him the second Franck Ribéry.”
“Hmm, I see. But his physicality's dragging him down.”
Carson gave a wry nod at Jeong-woo's murmur.
“It's a shame for the kid, but he's used to it.”
Jeong-woo didn't disagree.
This football world was full of players who blazed bright one moment and faded the next overnight.
‘Makes sense—even the kids hyped as the next Messi from Argentina, Italy, or Germany often just disappear without a trace once they grow up.’
It came down to growth curves.
Every player had potential, and turning that into real ability was what they called growth.
Kids who shone young converted it faster than their peers.
But the instant their physical or mental development stalled, they hit a wall.
‘While I'm plateauing, everyone else explodes ahead.’
It happened all the time in the teens.
Two years ago, someone lagging behind could suddenly leapfrog you.
Or the weight of public hype could mess with their head and stunt growth altogether.
‘Bojan's the poster child.’
In the end, they crumbled physically or mentally, sinking to journeyman level—or worse.
‘Anyway...’
Jeong-woo narrowed his eyes.
He was putting up a fight, but U19-level physicals wouldn't cut it in the Championship. Playing his game would be tough.
Still, what drew the eye was his elite dribbling penetrations.
‘Man, if his physical could keep up, he'd be a Championship asset for sure.’
Truly a shame.
But Jeong-woo's gaze soon hardened coldly.
‘In the end, football's a eat-or-be-eaten world.’
At that moment, Carson muttered bitterly.
“Personally, Pep Guardiola treats that kid like a sore thumb.”
“...”
“He's been tracking him solidly for seven years... a talent Pep scouted himself.”
“I'll take him on.”
“Pardon?”
“I'll make it work.”
No need for long explanations.
In the car heading back to Bolton.
“You sure you didn't jump the gun?”
Hee-won asked while gripping the wheel and checking the right-side mirror.
It was about loaning in Roberie.
Jeong-woo, sprawled wide in the passenger seat, gazed out the window and shook his head.
“Jump the gun my ass.”
“We were originally eyeing a different player...!”
“Hee-won.”
“Yeah?”
Hee-won furrowed his brow faintly at Jeong-woo cutting him off.
‘Here comes this guy's bullshit again...!’
Sure enough, Jeong-woo kept staring out the window and unleashed his sophistry.
“It ain't right saying we were after someone else. Don't box in these young prospects like that.”
“What...”
“They're fresh shoots from new soil. No telling which one's gonna turn into Ronaldo, Messi, Rashford... or something even bigger.”
“Bull...!”
“Hey, remember elementary school? You bragged about that perfect dictation score everywhere. What'd you say? Yeah, you were gonna be a Korean teacher. Did you? Or didn't you?”
This time, Hee-won had no comeback.
The memory was crystal clear.
Jeong-woo didn't miss a beat and kept rolling.
“But look at you now, over twenty years later. Was that what anyone expected? Or what anyone hoped?”
“...”
“It was the unexpected, the pipe dream. You moron. Point is, who knows what our Roberie turns into in a year or two? Physical not cutting it in the Championship right now?”
Jeong-woo chuckled dryly and tacked on.
“Then just don't get into scraps, like Owen.”
Hee-won shook his head slowly.
Jeong-woo shrugged shamelessly.
“Watch me. I'm gonna develop him proper.”
The loan for Roberie was dirt cheap on wages too, which helped.
Virtually no competition meant zero loan fee.
Of course, the bigger hook was Pep's sore-spot status.
They did score one win, though.
They'd successfully extended Frank Gerrard's loan for another year—the guy who'd anchored midfield last season alongside David Dignity.
‘Frank, you rascal.’
He'd seemed to pick Bolton as his top destination from the start.
The second Jeong-woo showed up at reserve training—even late to the party—the guy ditched everyone else and bounded over like an excited pup.
Still, there was regret.
‘Couldn't snag Palmer.’
Cole Palmer had been a handy multi-tool last season—not a starter, but solid with 24 sub appearances.
But Palmer opted for a different path.
‘Bundesliga.’
A challenge with Hamburg, freshly promoted to the Bundesliga.
Jeong-woo couldn't chain down a kid that ambitious.
“Well, at least we shored up goalkeeper.”
Hee-won muttered with a satisfied look.
True to his words, during the loan talks, Jeong-woo had sealed a one-year deal for a City goalkeeper.
“Gavin Bazunu.”
Jeong-woo murmured low.
Man City reserves' keeper and an Ireland international.
Bolton's current number one was Scritch.
He'd helped win League One, but he had nagging errors and a leaky goals-against average.
‘Defense was off too, sure.’
Still, the title came from unreal attack.
Either way, Jeong-woo planned to ramp up goalkeeper competition with Bazunu and boost performances across the board.
Suddenly, his nostrils flared wide.
Loaning in Bazunu hit him viscerally with the reality of Championship promotion.
‘An Ireland international joining our squad? Hell yeah!’
It screamed how much Bolton's stock had skyrocketed with promotion.
* * *
Manchester United's chief, Ole Gunnar Solskjær, had been in a foul mood these past few days.
Especially when Bolton Wanderers didn't just promote from League One but snatched the title outright—it ignited a rage he could barely contain.
“Goddamn Ma coach...!”
He ground his teeth.
Just picturing the man made his molars ache.
Months of therapy, and still, one glimpse of that face in his mind had heat rushing to his cheeks.
But now a sly smirk tugged at his lips.
“Heh heh heh.”
“...”
The man on the opposite sofa stared, momentarily speechless.
He even pressed back against the armrest subtly.
‘What the hell?’
Solskjær had morphed the instant Bolton came up—shifting by the second.
Whatever. Solskjær quit laughing and asked.
“So, Bolton put in a bid for Sheffield Wednesday's center-back?”
“Yes, that's right, but...”
Sheffield Wednesday's manager, Ian Foster, nodded with a guarded expression.
“And a proposal for their right-back too.”
“Yes, correct.”
Just as Solskjær asked, Bolton had made offers to Sheffield Wednesday's center-back and right-back in recent days.
Sheffield had no real reason to turn them down.
Neither was a locked starter—just rotation pieces.
They'd delayed only because backups weren't lined up yet.
In the meantime, Ian Foster got the call-up to Manchester United.
‘Sure, we're affiliates, but...’
Getting yanked in out of nowhere didn't sit right.
Having Solskjær plop him down, cackling one second then trembling with fury the next? Unsettling as hell.
But Solskjær's follow-up floored Foster.
“We'll take both players.”
“Huh...?”
“We sign them, then loan them back to you at Sheffield. Sound good?”
* * *
“Sheffield Wednesday rejected the transfer offer.”
“Again?”
Jeong-woo, lounging in the executive chair and scanning articles about himself, scowled hard.
Across the desk, the elderly gentleman—Richard Geers—nodded with a hint of anger.
“Word is, Manchester United swooped in, signed those two, and loaned them straight back to Sheffield. Sneaky fucks... twisted it like a pretzel just to take a bite. Fuck...!”
“...”
If even Richard Geers—a diehard Wanderers fan—said it like that, he was pissed.
Jeong-woo cleared his throat awkwardly and probed further.
“What about MK Dons?”
“No-sale policy.”
“Reading?”
“Manchester United... on loan form.”
Bolton had shopped around a few teams for players.
But the more Geers answered, the more absurd laughter bubbled up in Jeong-woo.
Man United wedging in on most deals?
‘Sign 'em then loan back?’
From their side, no loss—cheap fees, young talents, perfect for “investing in the future.”
Jeong-woo even chuckled at the fresh article popping up.
[Solskjær: ‘Man Utd Won’t Spare Full Investment for the Future.’]
Screamed retaliation.
Probably from those two brutal losses lately.
‘Or the gravestone?’
The massive Man Utd tombstone at University A entrance had become a fan hotspot.
Soon, Jeong-woo muttered in disbelief.
“What is this, corporate bullying?”
But Geers' next words locked his expression rigid.
“Manchester United put offers in for Owen Pressais and star Paik. Thirteen million pounds (209 billion KRW) for Owen, ten million (160 billion KRW) for Paik.”
“Those fucking pricks?”
The curse flew out on reflex.